


Five Unusual Mediums Through Which Shawn Chose to Communicate (And The Very Direct Way In Which Lassie Finally--Or Originally--Did The Same)

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Bondage, Dress Up, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Roleplay, Romance, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the title says. I know that all slash is technically AU and that Five Times fic also tends to be AU, but just to make it clear--> This is AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Unusual Mediums Through Which Shawn Chose to Communicate (And The Very Direct Way In Which Lassie Finally--Or Originally--Did The Same)

**Author's Note:**

> Because someone suggested that I ought to do another five times. And also because that someone (dlasta )and I have do something all day, and thinking up kinky, silly Shassie shenanigans is apparently it.

1) silence

Shawn had no intention of staying in Santa Barbara for long. He never did.

Well, sometimes, when he thought about the good times he'd had here, he considered it. But then he'd encounter Henry and he'd get the urge to go raise llamas in Idaho—always a temporary urge, because llamas _smell_ up close and Idaho has all these _bugs_. It was the way he always lost the urge for all his jobs after a week or two, a month at most, because he got bored, and because the reality was that he'd had some _really_ good times in Santa Barbara and then he'd think about them, and Gus, and even Henry before he came to his senses. For like, half a second.

So he'd come home, but as he had kept telling Gus, _strictly_ to _visit_ , because there wasn't anything to keep him in town, and he was still looking for a job out there somewhere that would be satisfying, or at least not boring, and keep him away from police work and policemen at the same time.

He had come back to Santa Barbara after about fourteen years of travelling around, seeing the sights, learning just about everything there was to learn without ever opening a book. He had returned just to visit, even if he'd stayed longer than usual this time, and then called in tips to the police, which was pretty dumb considering he was supposed to be avoiding cops, and which he still had no real explanation for doing for except that he couldn't exactly turn his brain off, and bad guys had been getting away with stuff, and also he'd really needed the paycheck.

Then somewhere in there he had found the right job. Well, stumbled into it. Well, lied his way into it. In the last place he'd ever wanted to find it, in the last way he ever thought he would.

Although now Shawn felt like he should have seen it coming. Because of course solving crimes and irritating the police while doing it wasn't even _remotely_ boring, and Shawn couldn't resist a lure like that.

Even when innocently walking into that police station only to find his calling, like it had just been there, waiting for him, for years, had made him lose his mind for a minute, made him forget what he was saying and get careless and just... Wow. Not even he could have predicted that.

But he still wasn't staying, not for long.

Yes, he'd gotten a year's lease on the _Psych_ office, but it was only a year. Shawn had spent eighteen years of his life in Santa Barbara. One more wouldn't kill him, as long as he stayed away from Henry, and from the very angry, very distant Detective Lassiter. He just had to make it through a year without anymore serious surprises, and things would be perfect. He'd be like he had been for the past decade or so. Just fine.

It was just a matter of talking about certain subjects and avoiding others, at least until it was useful to talk about them anyway. It was just...Shawn had never been overly fond of silence. Silence stretched, and it made people notice things, and as surprising as it was to find a job he liked, it was nothing to how surprising it was that he had to stay quiet to keep it, and that he did.

Things weren't supposed to surprise Shawn. Henry had made sure of that. So the things, the people, that did, well, Shawn could hardly be blamed for getting thrown off his game a little. Having someone accuse him of lying when he'd been attempting to help—and coincidentally collect that paycheck—wasn't exactly new. Looking up into blue eyes and feeling hot all over—also not new at all even if Shawn had reacted like it had been. Just a little too slow, a little too young.

The memory of that reaction still bothered him when he stopped to think about it, or experience it again, brand new every time. If his new calling hadn't involved looking for work at that police station, he would have stayed as far away from it as possible, for as long as possible. If he could avoid Henry for years at a time, then he could have stayed away from any cops for at least a few months.

What were months on top of over a decade anyway?

But no, he _had_ walked into the station, and he had stared right into the face of destiny—or a cranky, frowning, guarded detective with a strong Irish hairline—and realized within twenty-four hours that he had a job where he might not get bored, and that it was in Santa Barbara, and that if he wanted one, he had to deal with the other, and everything in it.

All things easily avoided if he focused on the job part, and the fun cases to solve, and not so much on the everything else.

It wasn't like the everything else was a puzzle. People were never mysteries. Shawn could look at every line and wrinkle on their faces and tell that they'd been hurt in the past despite every warning they'd ever been given. He could observe the tense set of their shoulders and the way they glared at the world and say that the years of hard work had finally left them with a wall of defenses so thick it would take a bomb to get them down—not that Shawn had anything against defenses, except when they got in his way.

Shawn could even get a small glimpse of one big hand stroking a strand of blond hair and know that underneath all of that there was still someone gentle and worried and protective.

He could also tell from that, that the defensive, older, married, and controlled Detective Lassiter liked women.

Or at least wanted the world to think he did.

The first time Shawn had found himself pinned between Lassiter and a car he had known otherwise.

The first time he had pushed him against a wall—the first time Detective Lassiter had pushed Shawn against a wall—Shawn had noticed the trembling hands, the jaw tight from words held back, and the blaze of feeling in the blue eyes.

He had gasped and gotten loud with sudden, intense arousal. Maybe too loud, because that look had instantly disappeared. Like it hadn't even been there, even if Lassiter hadn't let go, and Shawn hadn't moved to make him. They might still have been like that if the rest of the world hadn't interrupted.

But it had, and Lassiter—Lassie—had walked away, and the line between his eyes had stayed there and even knowing he should leave it alone, that it was none of his business or Lassie would have said something, Shawn had watched it, and waited.

Then he'd gotten bored. Waiting was _boring_. Waiting for the obvious and inevitable was even more boring. It was why Shawn usually did a little arranging to end things so they wouldn't drag on forever. Or just left.

His cases were fun, helping people felt exactly like what he had been doing all his adult life, only now he was getting paid for it, but when people went out of their way to avoid dealing with things? Ridiculous.

He had pointed that out to Gus once, and gotten a raised eyebrow and a stare for it. But it was true.

Take the Lassiepants. Detective Lassiter. Lassie. Whatever. He would do everything—had done everything—to let Shawn know he wasn't welcome in his town or his station. He had pushed Shawn's face into a car—not nice—and threatened to arrest him, called him several unpleasant names. Like “liar” and “fake” and “crazy” just to remind Shawn and everyone else that Shawn had to be kept at a distance.

True, yes, except for the crazy one. But unpleasant just the same. Because they implied that Shawn wasn't trustworthy, when Shawn was very...well...he was capable of trustworthiness.

For example, he reasoned, driving around on his shiny bike because he could drive around on his shiny bike, Shawn knew things. Like that Lassiter might like women, and he might be married—sort of—but he wanted Shawn, and Shawn hadn't said a single word about it. Yet.

Not to Gus, not to anyone. Definitely not to Lassiter.

At least not out loud. Mostly because he didn't know what to do about it. It was better to ignore it; he wasn't going to be here long anyway. Except that ignoring anything that wasn't Henry's advice had never been something he'd been very good at; and he had _months_ left until he could take off again. Months to contemplate a lot of sexy, triumphant scenarios to seduce the sour, bitter, lonely Detective Lassiter, maybe congratulate him on his promotion. Dreams just to pass the time. He didn't intend to actually do it.

The detective—the cop—had probably never even let himself do more than kiss another man. The thought made Shawn's insides burn, even when he had just put on two shirts on to keep warm.

Shawn didn't plan on seducing him anymore than he planned—had planned—on scaling those walls of his, though Shawn liked to think he was more agile now than he was as a kid, even if he almost never exercised. Scaling walls wasn't even really his thing. Seeing the truth was his thing, even if he wasn't speaking it.

But waiting was boring and he had so _much_ time before the year was over, _months_. So he'd poked, and prodded, and dared, and invaded Lassiter's personal space, gone right on past guards and walls, and been totally and completely surprised when after a few bruises and wide-eyed stares, Lassiter had stopped pushing him away. Just...stopped. Had only snarled and barked and frowned at him, confused and alarmed when instead of stopping too, like he should have, Shawn had kept on being as irritating as he could possibly be and getting a little closer each time.

To be honest, Shawn was a little confused and alarmed too. And aroused. And if he couldn't talk about what he wanted to talk about then he should at least be able to act. Those frown lines _were_ making him crazy.

So he teased Lassie about his hair and fondled his legs in front of other cops and was better than Lassiter was at everything but ass kicking, being over the top in a way even Shawn knew was annoying and hurtful, waiting and getting more obnoxious every time Lassiter just let him. But after six months of Shawn being home, and Shawn working, and Shawn knocking down walls, after six months of that, instead of shoving Shawn away or telling him to get lost, Lassie had given him pained, reluctant stares that had left Shawn gasping and quiet. And then just when Shawn had really shown Lassie up, got to see Lassie acknowledge Shawn in open court and everything, Lassie had given Shawn...his bike back.

It was completely unfair. He'd realized that it wasn't what he wanted even as he'd gotten it.

People hadn't really surprised Shawn much since he'd left home at eighteen, but it turned out they could disappoint him, and make him sad, and angry, and instead of leaving it alone, or just leaving, year or no year, or yelling about the injustice and scotch and stupid cop mentalities, he had...stayed.

He hadn't intended to. He didn't think he was supposed to. Like he wasn't supposed to know where Lassiter lived, wasn't supposed to park the bike Lassie had secretly gotten back for him at the curb and knock on Lassie's door in the middle of the night.

But Lassiter had done it, even if he hadn't wanted Shawn to know, and there was only so much pretending not to see the obvious Shawn could do.

Though somehow it was still a shock to watch the door open and see who was on the other side.

“Er Lass,” he said out loud, swallowing anything else and shutting himself the hell up.

He only had a second to study the other man, but Shawn could take in a lot in a second; the wedding ring and messy, silky dark hair with gray in it now, the cell phone on the table behind him, the framed picture of the man's wife, but what caught his attention, what made him freeze was the shirt opened to reveal the plain white t-shirt, the rolled up sleeves and bare forearms, the scent of scotch in the air.

Shawn can see and guess the reasons; Lassie had had the day off, had tried to call his ex-wife—and believe it or not, Shawn could do math, knew exactly who she was, what the day must be—but the look in the blue eyes was familiar in a different way.

Lass was clearly a lot more than two scotches into the evening, but he was still strong and steady on his feet. He frowned to see Shawn, snorted a laugh in a way that said he wasn't surprised even if Shawn was feeling a little stunned.

“Of course you're here, Spencer.” His tone was upset even if his stare was warm. He reached out and yanked Shawn inside, pissed off, or so Shawn thought until he was inside the house and squashed up against the closed door, crushed against Lassiter, who felt a lot like someone he used to know.

The first touch of hands at his jaw and Shawn was gasping loudly, pushing forward.

“Are you here because you know?” Lassie was talking but Shawn couldn't even think of words, more than a little off his game, more than little lost to everything but the door at his back and Lassie in front of him. It was everything that he'd been waiting for, even if he hadn't realized he was still waiting.

Fourteen years and Lassiter's hands were shaking. Lass was drunk, wasted and frowning, but his lips were sweet. His body was hot. But he was still talking, pinning Shawn to the door with one look, like he was hungry and Shawn was a pupu platter.

“You're just like...” Lassie growled in between killing Shawn with that first—the second—kiss, demanding and firm and rough like he couldn't kiss Shawn enough, and the fact that he didn't finish the thought should have stopped Shawn, or at least slowed him down.

But he was here, _finally_ , shivering at the heat of big hands on his stomach, yanking feverishly at the pineapple-print boxers Henry had gotten him last Christmas, and he wasn't moving away. He moaned, loud, even against Lassiter's mouth, frowned and turned his head into Lassie's neck when Lassie went still for a moment, embarrassed at the noise. Lassie's neck was hot, he was blushing, and Shawn licked over that, brought his head back up to kiss Lassie's pink mouth, just under his nose, ran his hands over the solid, strong body.

Shawn knew this, knew where it was going. He was going to end up getting fucked behind closed doors, behind this door, in more ways than one, on the night of Lassie's anniversary, with Lassie having to get drunk just to work up the nerve to touch Shawn like this, and still he kissed back. Maybe because Lassie was done speaking, and now Shawn couldn't seem to stop, could barely manage to keep quiet anymore.

“Lass,” he sighed, and Lassie grunted, gentling in a way that drove Shawn crazy, like he knew that. And when Lassie hitched a breath and touched him underneath his boxers, made a small sound of his own, Shawn knew he wasn't going anywhere.

 

2) desk

 

With Lassie in the little boys' room on his second coffee-related pee break of the day, Shawn had about one minute remaining to get to Lassie's desk and make himself comfortable.

He leapt to the side in an agile, forest-creature fashion that he had perfected a few years ago, while Jules and Gus were deep into the finer points of Justice League versus the Legion of Doom, then bolted full speed around the chair and imaginary office walls that always made him think of _WKRP_ reruns, coming to an abrupt stop once he was “in”.

He hopped up backwards and ignored the sudden alarmed noises from Juliet's desk as she and Gus noticed exactly where Shawn had planted his butt.

“Shawn, what?”

“Shawn...uh...Lassiter...”

To which Shawn said nothing, merely swinging his legs as he caught his breath and waited. He didn't have to wait long.

“Spencer!” Lassiter's yell could be heard across the station, and if everyone was looking at them now, then it was Lassie's fault, and he'd brought it on himself. If Lassie had been more open about himself with others from the beginning then they never would have been in this situation. That this was a slightly unrealistic view considering Shawn had grown up around cops and knew how they thought—or used to think—didn't make his point any less valid, he felt.

So he just waved.

“Hey, Lassie,” he called out to the large, gangly man striding towards him, as though he wasn't sitting smack in the middle of the man's precious desk. Just a few months ago invading Lassie's territory like this would have earned him some serious manhandling. The kind with pink, flushed skin and sharp eyes that wondered why in the hell Shawn was testing him like that, couldn't he see how _hard_ he was trying to not touch him? And Shawn would look back that that couldn't Lassie see how hard it was _not_ to get touched? And then Lassie would blink and look around and remember where they were, and Shawn would crack a really loud joke about something just to make Lassiter narrow his eyes and think about stepping back in to finish what he'd started.

He never did though, because the fact that Shawn thought he'd finally broken through all of that didn't mean he actually had. There was a slight possibility he was going to end up against a wall again, but mostly the odds were greater that Lassiter would snap and bark and then stalk off somewhere to fire his gun.

Just the same Shawn didn't move. Sitting here was a lot like arguing with Henry; it took some serious man grapes to get through the layers of bullshit cops liked to bury themselves in. That Shawn knew why they did it didn't make bullshit any less annoying. His bullshit was far more original and entertaining.

Jules got up, but only to stand there next to Gus as Lassie came over to glare at Shawn. He didn't sit down in his little rolly chair and Shawn kicked his legs harder to match how fast his heart was beating.

“What do you think you're doing?” Lassie's eyes went from Shawn's face to his ass to his legs and then back up. Shawn smiled innocently despite his suddenly dry mouth.

“I'm sitting here, and not moving, and staying out of your business.” He enjoyed saying that, he really did, even with the way Lassie blanched and then frowned before momentarily looking away. “Isn't that what you told me to do?” Shawn went on deliberately, leaning back on his hands when Lassie's gaze met his, pissed and confused and something else Shawn couldn't immediately identify.

It was a lot like what had been in his eyes yesterday evening when he'd been shoving Shawn—and Gus, but mostly Shawn—onto the curb outside the no-tell motel before he'd charged into the room where their suspect had been holed up and gotten himself shot at in the process. And that was exactly what he'd snarled at Shawn before doing it, eyes blazing.

“You sit down and don't move and keep out of our business!” His breath had been hot, but his hands been ice cold, un-Lassie-like, and on Shawn for too brief a moment. He hadn't even taken a second to listen to Shawn's warning about the gun, or at least, he hadn't seemed to, only setting his shoulders and kicking the door in with a shocking amount of force, even for Lassie, then disappearing into the sound of multiple gunshots and Jules calling for backup.

“You know why I said that.” Lassie lifted his chin, not about to back down, not even for _bullets_. He looked around, at Gus and Jules, at the station, and then growled, only slightly softer. “And since when you do listen to me, Spencer?”

Shawn made his smile wider, kicked his legs harder. He stuck his lower lip out when Lassie grabbed one of his legs in one large hand and forced it to be still, but he stopped kicking.

“When I realized you were right, Lassie,” he remarked lightly, but loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I mean, it was dangerous and I shouldn't go rushing in to get myself shot at. I mean, I'm not Arnold. I could _die_ , and that might _upset_ people.” Shawn raised an eyebrow. Lassie's face was going all kinds of pale again, well, a whiter shade of pal _er_. “So I'm going to stay right here with you at all times, where it's _safe_.”

He patted the desk and kept his head up.

Lassie had that swallowed a bug look on his face. It was Shawn's favorite Lassie look, next to the geeky bright face he got for new guns, and the way he frowned when he was very frustrated, or happy, and of course, the way his face finally smoothed out when he was sleeping.

That last one wasn't something Shawn got to see a lot, even now, which might be the reason that he hadn't gotten tired of it yet, anymore then he'd gotten tired of showing up at Lassiter's place after long nights and longer days, finally giving in and knocking on Lassie's door, grateful every time Lassie let him in, yanked him close.

Something about bullets had made him a little less grateful. Had made him think that waiting for weeks at a time and then showing up when they were both desperate was kind of stupid considering that Lassie had a job where he could die. Resisting at all seemed _really_ stupid, no matter how Shawn considered it, but he knew Lassie might not feel the same. Probably didn't. But hopefully could. If he couldn't...

Lassie met Shawn's expectant stare, his frown in place, which was no surprise. His eyes were fierce before jerked them away.

“We have a case to solve, Spencer,” he reminded Shawn, and the room, through gritted teeth, and Shawn leaned back further, spread his legs.

“And I am here to help, Lassiepants.” It was so hard to breathe.

“Shawn...” Gus warned him. Lassiter dragged his gaze over Shawn once more.

“Relax, Gus. I am in the safest place in Santa Barbara, maybe even the world, right, Lassie?” Shawn waited, watched the frustrated line appear in Lassie's forehead.

Lassiter looked around at the room again and then at Shawn. Then he pushed roughly past Shawn's legs and sat down in his chair, as though he didn't care at all that there was a man's ass on his desk, a man's junk directly in his line of sight if he looked up.

Jules gasped quietly, probably at how Shawn wasn't dead. But Lassie wasn't making his murderous face. She should know that, even if she hasn't cataloged all of Lassie's expressions like Shawn had.

Lassie stared up and ahead, into Shawn's face. Shawn softened his smile, took a deep breath.

“If I told you to get lost, would you, Spencer?” Lassie wondered in a lower growl, and Shawn finally let that breath out.

“Would you tell me to get lost?” he wondered back, his voice even lower. Lassiter's lips tightened, then he rolled forward. He looked away without answering, pulled a file out from under Shawn's ass and flipped it open. Nobody gasped this time. After a minute, Shawn didn't even think that many people were watching anymore.

Some of the tension around them eased, since, well, Lassie hadn't outright killed him. Shawn's smile got tighter though, until it almost hurt, and then Lassie looked at him over the top of the manila folder.

“No,” he said finally, just for Shawn, and Shawn sighed as he sagged back. He hadn't even been aware he'd sat up. But he waved one hand briefly, inched his legs even further apart.

He had no idea why his smile made Lassie flinch, but when Shawn put a hand to his leg, ran it slowly down his inner thigh, which was also, coincidentally, right next to Lassie, Lassie's flinch changed to wide-eyed alarm. Exactly what it should have been outside that motel.

 _Bullets_. Honestly. He never listened to Shawn.

“See? I'm helping and I'm completely safe, Gus,” Shawn called out without turning, arching his back just a little before taking his hand away.

He licked his lips and the blue eyes turned wary, then bright. Shawn fought the urge to kick again to match his speeding pulse, left his legs on either side of Lassie as he put both hands on his jeans, wiped his damp palms across tight-and-getting-tighter denim. He had to put one hand back on the desk to stay up when the slight touch made him feel a little weak.

Lassie lowered the file and frowned distractedly at Shawn's lopsided grin, then down at his lap.

“Because this isn't dangerous at all, is it, Lass?” Shawn remarked, just _slightly_ out of breath, and thought about last night, and not showing up at Lassie's house, and that one missed call from Lassie, the half a ring before Lassie had hung up and given Shawn no choice but to answer him today like this. Shawn didn't have much patience with any gay panicking. Well he did, he had years' worth, but Lassie had already used it all up.

“I...” Lassie started, had to swallow. Shawn slid his thumb along the seam in the denim, just under the zipper. Lassie's hands tightened on the file, then one came up to tug at his collar, loosen his tie.

“There's no place safer,” Shawn went on, touching himself where no one but Lassie could see, and those pissed and confused and starving eyes focused on him. It was difficult to speak for a moment when he knew what that look meant. “Right?”

“Shawn,” Lassie finally choked out like he couldn't on the phone last night and Shawn hopped up, forcing Lassie's rolly chair back.

“So it's settled,” Shawn announced, loudly. “It's better if I stick with Lassie at all times.”

Lassie shut his mouth, hard, dropped the file strategically over his lap. Shawn tugged his shirt down at the reminder and then waved at Lassie before skipping back over to Gus. On shaky legs, but he didn't think anybody noticed.

He had about a minute before Lassie recovered enough to yell at him that that wasn't what he'd meant yesterday. Which Shawn already knew, obviously, but this hadn't been about that. This had been about what he'd thought about all night instead of going over to Lassie's for some smutty, dirty, but very secret sex.

“Now...” He slapped his hands together and ignored the way Little Shawn was not pleased. “...We have a case to solve,” he declared and tossed a look over his shoulder at Lassiter's frustrated face. But after a sleepless night, alone, with the day's events playing out in front of him over and over, after years between them, the invitation wasn't so strange. _He_ had to do it, just like before, had to take care of Lassiter. “You coming, Lass?”

Some people, Shawn had realized, had to be shown the way.

 

3) a wire

 

“Well you know what your problem is?” Shawn told his third john of the night, “You need to stand up for yourself at work, be open with who you are. After that everything will fall into place.”

He leaned back into the car's upholstery and pulled idly at the tight half-shirt that Jules had insisted he wear. It looked okay on him, but...it was a half-shirt.

“You're right!” The guy—whose name was Chuck, not John, not that he'd told Shawn that—was troubled. Also married.

“And if you're picking up male prostitutes it's never going to work out with Bunny,” Shawn added for Bunny's sake, smiling pleasantly into Chuck's chubby, earnest face.

“You're my first,” Chuck immediately confessed. It made Shawn focus on him and not the peeling plastic he was sitting on or the smell of the old car they'd set up for this whole psychic-undercover-as-a-male-hooker-to-find-a-killer thing, though the car smelled like feet and pee and...candy corn. Chuck didn't smell much better.

“Christ,” Lassie breathed into the microphone in Shawn's ear, and Shawn hid a smile, frowning as he patted Chuck's shoulder.

“I just thought I'd try something...I don't know...different...new.” And illegal gay sex had been his first thought. Shawn felt sorry for Bunny, again. What was with guys who denied themselves what they really wanted and dated these poor women? It was a serious waste of everyone's time.

“Believe me, Chuck, I completely understand,” he sympathized. He really did. “I know this guy, this old, angry det...man...with really bad hair and he has to get drunk to try new things. Got wasted one time and showed up with a shaved head.”

“Just like Britney Spears,” Chuck commented. Shawn nodded wisely.

“Had to have some scotch just to try a new color tie, and don't get me started on the sex...”

“Spencer...” Lassie warned him and he sounded so close, like he really was growling into Shawn's ear, in a way he hadn't in days. Not since they'd started this stupid undercover operation. This was actually the closest they'd been; Lassiter and his gun a mostly-silent presence just out of sight in the alley where they'd parked the car.

A few other cops were scattered and hidden farther back, but Lassie hadn't budged, not once in three nights, even if standing there was all he did.

He hadn't even looked at Shawn when Shawn had come out in his tight shirt and jeans, had only gotten stiffly up from his desk, walked into the Chief's office, and stated—again—that he didn't think this operation was a good idea.

Shawn had stormed in after him—as much as he could in these pants, they were really tight—and insisted he was the best man for the job, whatever Lassie apparently thought of him. The Chief had agreed with him and Lassie could just suffer and see how amazing Shawn was in action.

“Actually, I've never had sex with him,” Shawn admitted with a drawn out sigh, for his other audience, “but I'm sure he has to tip back a few just to get to first base. You've never seen anyone this repressed.”

Lassie's breathing was getting ragged.

“Aaaaanyway,” Shawn patted Chuck again. “The point is that you don't want a hooker.”

“I don't?” Chuck seemed confused. Shawn made a sad face.

“Nope. You, Chuckarino, want respect, and when you lost it at work, you started acting differently at home. Now, you go to that fertilizer company and you tell them you aren't going to take anymore of their crap!”

It was too easy. But despite what Shawn had thought when he'd first moved back to town, it still hadn't gotten boring.

“You're right!” Chuck leaned toward the door, then froze. “I didn't tell you I worked for a fertilizer company.”

“Sure you did.” Shawn waved him on, breathing better when they were both outside the close confines of the car. He looked around but didn't see even a hint of Lassie. Maybe he'd put on his commando makeup to blend in with the shadows. He did like dress up.

“Um..do I...?” Chuck pulled out his wallet and Shawn quickly slapped it down.

“On the house,” he told him and glanced around again.

“This is a waste of time,” Lassie snarled the moment Chuck was gone and Shawn pulled hard at his ridiculous shirt—half-shirts, possibly the worst thing about the Eighties next to women in shoulder pads. “All you've done for three nights is give impromptu therapy sessions to every lonely loser in Santa Barbara.”

“First of all, Lassie,” Shawn hid his face to answer back, speaking into the wire in his watch. “Chuck needed help. And secondly, I haven't helped every lonely loser in Santa Barbara, you're still having problems.”

Somewhere in this alley, there were several members of the police department muffling laughs and Shawn grinned, imagined Lassiter's clenched jaw. Then he got quieter.

“I can do this.”

“I never said...” Lassie started in immediately but Shawn made a scoffing noise and Lassie shut up.

“What do you want me to do, Lassie? Have sex with them?” Shawn interrupted him, tugged on his “shirt” again. “Do I get to keep the money if I do? Like a bonus? Because I want to get that steering wheel accessory for my _Wii_. You know how I love accessories.” _He_ had no problem being open at work.

“Spencer!” The sound Lassie made was like a hushed, frustrated howl.

“I'm sure I could put on _quite_ the show for you.”

“I'm sure you could,” Lassiter snapped breathlessly and Shawn covered his gasp with a forced laugh.

“I'm sure it wouldn't take much for you, Lassiepants. How long has it been anyway?” he asked, hiding his hurt frown and putting an arm around his stomach as he walked to the end of the alley to try again.

The night air was cold, that was why. He had goosebumps.

“Shut up, Spencer,” Lassie said at last, quietly, which meant he was really furious, and Shawn leaned against a building and shoved his hands into his pockets.

Four days. It had been four days since Lassie had gotten laid, since he had followed Shawn home and they had humped like bunnies on Shawn's couch-slash-bed, grinding against each other without taking their clothes off. Four days since they'd watched TV and then actually gotten undressed and fucked again, for real, and then sometime early in the morning or the middle of the night, Shawn had stretched and accidentally pushed Lassiter off the bed. Couch. Whatever.

It was a small couch, in a small apartment, but that was no reason for Lassie to frown, then get up, get dressed and leave.

The next day the Chief had called Shawn in for this. And this psycho was killing people; was Shawn supposed to say no because Lassiter had made a frowny face at him? He could be brave too, and it was time Lassie saw that.

“Hey there.” The voice in his ear this time was not Lassie.

Shawn jumped and turned to smile into the face of their killer.

Maybe it was the small black leather bag the guy had in one hand, maybe it was the Coo Coo for Cocoa Puffs top hat and cape he was wearing, or maybe it was the knife he had pressed to Shawn's stomach, but Shawn totally had a vibe that this was their psycho.

He smiled brighter.

“Happy to see me?” he tried, only Psycho Killer just grinned back and waved the bag toward the alley. Shawn took the hint. He moved in that direction, and Psycho followed, poking the knife into his back at about where Shawn was pretty sure he kept all his important organs. Like his lungs, or his heart, or his...spleen.

“You seem like a guy with issues,” Shawn ventured, walking slowly back to the car. “Trouble at work? Trouble at home? Trouble with your love life...?” The knife point pushed harder into his skin and Shawn bit back most of his scream. Most of it. A tiny squeal might have escaped.

“Spencer?” Lassie was in his ear again and Shawn stopped at the car door.

“Okay, not your love life. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, we all have our problems communicating what it is we really mean, especially to the ones we like to spoon up against while they're snoring and who are totally unaware that sometimes I—we—watch them sleep... That's not creepy, is it? Wait, look who I'm asking.”

“You talk a lot,” Psycho commented and Shawn forced another smile when the knife pushed even deeper. He figured that with the knife where it was at his back, he wouldn't have a chance if he said the secret phrase that would send half a dozen cops charging into the alley. A hint of them and he'd be as dead as acid-washed jeans.

He really hated it when Lassie was right.

“And yet I never say anything that matters.” Shawn swallowed dryly. “At least not according to this guy I know.”

“I bet you know a lot of guys.” Psycho Killer's breath on him made him shiver. Or maybe that was the knife which had better not move. Shawn was pretty sure he needed his heart for living...and other stuff.

“You are right there. But this guy is special.” Shawn hitched his shoulders but didn't look up. “He's older and cranky and hasn't had a good hair day since 1993 and he says things like that when I irritate him, which is often. But he's faithful, you know?” Shawn breathed in carefully but the blade tip pressed into his skin anyway. “In fact, he's like that _Lassie_ dog from TV. Whenever you're in trouble, there he is, you don't even have to call him.” Shawn tried to wet his mouth again. “I really...I really liked that dog—probably because my dad never let me have one—but that dog was awesome. Always coming to the rescue...although Timmy was annoying, always _needing_ a rescue, he like never learned. It's a miracle Lassie didn't bite his arm off...”

“Shut up.”

“Okay,” Shawn agreed instantly. That knife was cold too. “Although,” he added half a second later only to suck in a breath when the knife blade pierced his skin. This shirt really was the most useless fashion choice ever.

“I told you to be quiet. I'll tell you when I want you to scream,” Psycho Killer bit out and then thank the patron saint of pineapple-loving pretend psychics, there was the sweet music of Lassie cocking his gun.

“And I'll tell you when you're under arrest, you sick freak.” Lassiter's voice was rough, but probably not as rough as his hands as he pulled Psycho Killer away from Shawn and slammed him face first into the car.

Shawn remembered that move. It hurt. Strangely, he felt no sympathy.

He turned and looked over, watching Lassiter grab the guy's wrist and force him to release the knife. “You're under arrest,” Lassie said, with obvious pleasure. “All units, move in,” he ordered into his communicator...thing...a moment later without even slowing. He wasn't in commando make up after all, but he was frowning, more than frowning; his face was locked tight in an expression of fury that made Shawn blink.

Lassie slammed Psycho Killer into the car again, then frisked him while the guy groaned in pain.

“You have the right to keep your disgusting mouth shut and you have the right to an attorney, which you're going to need, you twisted loser. If you can't afford one...”

Shawn tore his eyes away from Lassie as Jules and several other officers ran up, guns drawn now that Shawn was safe already. Jules smiled at him, then frowned at their guy, like everyone else did as Lassiter cuffed him.

“Can knife someone helpless in the back but don't have anything to say now?” Lassie sneered and shoved the guy at another cop. Psycho Killer's top hat fell the ground. Another cop picked it up.

“Hey! I'm not helpless!” Shawn tried.

“Shut up!” Lassie barked without looking at him, straight and tense, and Shawn scowled. After all, it had been his awesome communication skills that had brought Lassie in to save the day.

“That was a good idea, Shawn,” Jules was talking gently at his side while Lassie yelled for someone to collect the black bag for evidence. He did glance over then, over at Shawn, and then away when another detective opened up the bag.

Whatever was in there—and Shawn could guess, he'd seen the autopsy reports—made the detective heave a little.

Lassiter's shoulders went even straighter. He was going to be frowning for weeks. Jules was still talking.

“I didn't realize he had a knife on you until I saw Lassiter move. Are you okay?”

“Me?” Shawn unwrapped his arms from around his waist and waved it off, focused on himself. “I'm fine. I'm just wondering why it took you guys so long. I mean, it was so obvious. Like I really liked _Lassie_ —it was a horrible show, repetitive, cheesy, and not in color for some reason.”

“Shawn...” Jules sighed, then hopped up and looked expectant.

“O'Hara make sure that guy gets booked properly. No mistakes for any lawyers to find,” Lassiter ordered smoothly, coming up out of nowhere in his black suit. He jerked his head in an order for her to leave and grabbed Shawn by his stupid half-shirt before she'd even gone. She was the last cop in the alley that Shawn could see, while he _could_ see.

One swirling moment later and Shawn was wearing Lassiter's suit jacket over his clothes and was being pushed into the backseat of the stinky car. Now it smelled like feet and pee and Lassie's cologne.

Lassie climbed in over him and kissed him before Shawn could say a single word about how even he couldn't have predicted that would have happened.

“Never again,” Lassie grunted against his lips, and then groaned when Shawn grabbed him and yanked him down, like he had to do whenever they were like this, when it was dark around them. Hot.

Lassie kissed hard. Teeth and tongue and hungry, angry noises, and big warm hands stroking over Shawn's stomach right where Shawn had been coldest for three whole nights. Like Lassie had watched him and had known that.

“Never again,” Lassie warned him a second time, “What you're doing is dangerous,” and Shawn nodded, agreeing, at least for now. He could slip out of it later. Because Lassiter had been worried even if Shawn was no Timmy. He just shifted his legs apart so Lassie could drive into him just how concerned he had been, how much Shawn might mean to him.

Shawn, for his part, put his hands in Lassie's hair—he'd lied, he loved black and white—and moaned like the ho he was dressed up as.

 _Four days._

“You know, I'm going to have to charge you,” he breathed the moment he could, then gasped at how good it was to have Lassie holding him that tight, kissing him like he had only ever kissed Shawn twice before. Like he had to, and it had to be rough and furious, just the right kind of painful so Shawn would finally get why Lassie hadn't wanted him to do this.

“Fine,” was all Lassie said to that, too pissed to pretend anything, not that he was any good at it. He moved his mouth to Shawn's collarbone. “My place, and we're staying there. Your apartment doesn't even deserve the name.”

“ _Ahem_. Shawn?” Jules coughed discreetly into Shawn's ear, then stifled a giggle. “Lassiter remembered to remove his radio, but you left yours on.”

Lassiter pulled away from Shawn's mouth and Shawn froze with his hand on Lassie's package.

“Don't worry...it's okay. I think it's cute,” she went on as though she could see Lassie's face tightening again, just like Shawn could. “...And I'm the only one still in range anyway,” she paused, “I think.”

“You know,” Shawn said after a moment, in a way he hoped was regretfully, looking into those blue eyes. “You needed to be more open at work anyway. Trust me, I know all about how it can interfere with your love life.”

 

4) a Sharpie

 

Shawn had never dated...anyone. Not real dating, not seeing the same person and only that person for months. He'd never seen the need. He knew most of the important details about other people in the first hours of knowing them, and there was always something new and interesting around the corner.

So even when this thing with Lassiter had gone from silent, violent one night stands, to staying the night, to needing the sound of Lassiter's soft snoring for Shawn to get any kind of real rest—which had been, oh, after about a year into being in Santa Barbara and resigning his lease with Gus—Shawn had still figured that sooner or later, maybe after another year, he'd get bored.

It was one of the reasons he hadn't wanted this...thing...with Lassie to mean anything, to be anything. He'd get tired of knowing everything and he'd leave and Lassie would end up hurt. Because Officer Lass took things very seriously.

Except that by the time Shawn had realized that if it mattered that he hurt Lassiter it was already too late, it had already been too late, and now here he was, bored, just as he'd predicted.

Bored, just not in the way he'd predicted. Shawn was only rarely wrong after all.

Because, it turned out that Lassiter—as a genuine grown up just like Gus—needed eight full hours of sleep, and Shawn—as he never had or would—did not. Especially not when he had a problem—a case—to think over. And there was a lot of time to fill when he was with Lassiter, but not _with_ Lassiter.

He could go out...but he just came back so leaving was sort of pointless.

He'd brought over his _Wii_ , but playing by himself was no fun. And also Lassiter kicked his ass whenever he did play, which was just wrong, getting beaten by someone—almost—over forty and took all the fun out of _Wii_ unless Shawn was playing with Gus. Gus was easy to beat.

One night he'd tried cooking, but one tiny yet incredibly loud smoke alarm going off later, and he'd discovered just how serious Lassie was about those eight hours. Though those pineapple fritters would have been _amazing_.

He'd scouted around the house and found ten guns—not the number Lassie claimed—hidden, along with the framed picture of Victoria in the back of a closet. It had had dust on it, but still...framed...and hidden. Hidden made the fact that Lassie still had his wedding ring on all the more significant, like she could come back, or still be a part of his life in a way Shawn wasn't, or couldn't be.

And it had been at that point, just because he couldn't sleep like everyone else on the planet apparently, that Shawn realized that despite all the history between them, that Lassie could get tired of him. Or this, and go back to being sour, bitter, straight-in-public Lassiter.

He wouldn't have been able to sleep after that.

Filled with a horrible, panicky, bad seafood feeling, he'd stayed away from Lassie for one whole night, which was as long as he could, it turned out; the amount of time he was able to stay away from Lassiter kept shrinking, something else he'd noticed. Weird. So he'd been right back the next night, and the night after that, and then tonight, rocking Lassie's world so hard and so often that Lassie had finally grumbled at him that he needed his sleep even if Shawn didn't, then passed out across the whole bed, and Lassie had a big bed.

Maybe Shawn wouldn't have slept next to him, but he would have liked the chance to try.

So he brushed his teeth with Lassie's toothbrush even though his was right there next to Lassie's in Lassie's little bathroom caddy, watched Adult Swim on the Tivo he'd insisted Lassie try and which Lassie now loved, judging from all the History Channel stuff saved on there, and did his toenails.

Then he prowled around again. He didn't find anymore pictures of Lassie's wife, but he did solve two cases Lassie had been working on, rediscovered the fact that Lassiter had issues with _his_ dad, and that Lassie had spent a lot of money on pineapple in the last two months.

Shawn was smiling about that when he went into Lassiter's desk and found the Sharpie.

It was new and everything. Thick tip, jet black, and it smelled _awesome_.

He padded around, trying to find something to write on. Wrote, “They did it!” with little arrows and frowning faces on those case files. He scribbled, “Still available for hugs” on the bathroom mirror, and then, finally, a wicked pineapple tattoo on his arm.

But he was still awake. And restless if not bored. And Lassie was totally sleeping peacefully and dreaming about things that he didn't share, probably thinking about Victoria, because Shawn was thinking about Victoria, and how she had always been there between them and would always be between them unless somebody did something.

So Shawn crept as silently as Henry had taught him into the bedroom, past his shoes and Lassiter's tie on the hall floor, and the half-full bottle of pineapple _Fänta_ Shawn had insisted on trying—no he did not wanna _Fänta_ it turned out—and into the room where Lassie was partly on his back and curled around the _Jem_ pillow that Shawn had always had to hide from Gus for fear of the laughter. Lassie was naked except for the corner of a sheet right over his Lassiebits.

Shawn took a moment to enjoy the view. Not a perfect body, he reflected, but who wanted that? It wasn't like Lassie had complained about Shawn's little belly—Shawn kept meaning to work out, really, he just never had the time. But Lassie had a good body, hard and firm and...pale, okay, but pale also meant easily marked by Shawn's mouth and hands.

It really wasn't difficult to imagine what Lassie might look like marked with something else. Say, a black marker. He could even draw a mustache on Lassie's upper lip, and he spent a minute or two contemplating that, even though Lassie would notice that almost right away and ideally Shawn wanted a moment of private discovery. Which meant, sadly, no mustache for now, but...he grinned as he moved forward.

He was just finishing when Lassiter made a noise that meant he was waking up. Since it was six minutes before the alarm was set to go off, Shawn didn't complain, he just capped the marker and tossed it to the side, smiling widely when Lassie frowned and rolled onto his back.

There really was something about the way Lassie woke up when Shawn was there. His relaxed face tightened as he realized someone else was in the room—months and Lassie was still surprised to find out he wasn't alone. But the paranoid frown as he opened his eyes quickly melted into a warm, careful smile to see Shawn and in response, Shawn straddled Lassie's legs.

“What were you up to?” Lassie wondered, unfairly suspicious and Shawn made a noise of protest, threw the sheet somewhere to his right, on top of any Sharpies.

“Tsk tsk, Lass.” He shook his head, then ducked to rub his scruff against Lassiter's upper thigh. “The question is, what have _you_ been up to?” he murmured, and grunted happily as Lassie's hands slid into his hair.

If Lassie was late for work after what followed that, it was hardly Shawn's fault. Well, yeah, actually it was his fault. But Lassie's frantic scramble to get dressed had not been boring. And distracting Lassie every second until he'd been out the door and on his way to the station had been as exciting as the rest of the day, when Shawn found missing diamonds _and_ led Jules and Lassie to the long-lost heir to a fortune, who happened to work in a cranberry bog—in California. Who knew?

That Lassie had fallen into the bog and then had had to shower and change at the station—hardly Shawn's fault either, even if, yes, he'd been flirting with that long-lost heir while Lassie had stared and not paid attention to his footing.

Nonetheless, Shawn wisely skipped out of the station and headed home—to Lassie's house—before Lassie could emerge.

That he knew Lassie was coming for him didn't make waiting any less nerve-wracking.

Fifteen minutes after getting into the house and closing all the curtains, making sure all the doors but the front were locked, Lassiter arrived. He slammed the door behind him.

Shawn stood up from the couch and tried a smile.

“It's not my fault you fell in,” he began quickly.

“And Higgins?” Lassie asked, surprisingly cool for a man slamming doors and wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and SBPD gym shorts that...really showed off his muscles. Huh. Had he been walking around like that?

“Higgins?” Shawn repeated blankly and Lassie lifted one eyebrow.

“Oh, you mean Phillip,” Shawn snapped back into the conversation. “It turns out he's never even heard of _Magnum PI_.” Lassie just lifted the other eyebrow. “And...” Shawn shut his mouth, swallowed. “You were... You still wear your ring,” he finished finally and both of Lassiter's eyebrows snapped down.

He lifted a hand, his left, and stared at it like he'd forgotten the ring was there, which made Shawn feel...yeah...fairly stupid, but he was new to this relationship thing. Then Lassie scowled.

“And for that, you...?” He didn't finish, just waved at himself. Shawn took a step forward.

“No...that was...well...yes. But I was bored.”

“Bored?” Lassie's frown actually hurt. Shawn moved again. “You're...bored?” Lassie's head went back and Shawn heard himself get louder.

“No! Well...” He scratched. “I am, because I'm not.”

“You're...” Lassie's frown changed, though it didn't go away. “...Not bored?” It was even cute the way his voice went up. But it didn't last. “What the hell, Spencer? What are you, eighteen?”

Shawn captured his hands in front of him and shrugged. “You wish.”

Lassie made a rude noise.

“You were asleep.” And he still had that picture framed and hidden on the tops shelf in the back of his hall closet in that box full of other photographs, and what did that mean? “You can't hide things from me, you know.” Shawn gestured. “Psychic.”

Lassie blinked and sagged in one motion, all the tension going and leaving his shoulders drooped. He rubbed his eyebrow, then just sighed and looked exhausted. He was the one who'd gotten his full eight hours. He had no reason to look that way.

“I'm not hiding anything.” Lassie exhaled through his nose, looked even more tired. “You were bored, _because_ I was asleep?” Lassie tried to follow and Shawn shrugged again, shuffled nearer in a way that Lassie had to be used to by now. He didn't exactly seem surprised to see Shawn back in his personal space.

“I don't sleep a lot.”

Lassie's mouth twisted, but it wasn't totally an angry twist this time. Shawn stepped closer. Lassie didn't hold up a hand, which was a green light as far as Shawn was concerned. If it wasn't Lass would let him know; he was direct that way.

He stopped an inch away, stared into the embarrassed frown, the pink cheeks.

“Have a good shower?” He went for completely innocent. It might have been why Lassiter just snorted and put a hand at Shawn's lower back to finish bringing him in.

Lassie breathed out against his mouth and Shawn carefully placed a hand on Lassiter's waist. He lifted the shirt up with no problem, didn't even lose a limb.

The “If Lost, Please Return to Shawn Spencer” over Lassie's hip was still perfect. Which was good because Shawn had put a lot of effort into shading all the capitol letters.

He glanced up. Lassie was still frowning.

“Bored?” Lassie asked again, already nodding. Shawn tried a smile. “The ring?” Lassie continued and Shawn's nose itched. They stared at each other while Shawn imagined Lassie in the big gay communal locker room showers, the stares he wouldn't have understood at first because he had been too busy and too late this morning to look in a mirror, Shawn had made sure of that. He just hadn't anticipated the bog.

Though Lassie's reaction to Phillip had been reassuring, especially after Shawn's restless nights.

“And the rest?”

Shawn couldn't wait anymore. At that he shoved the shorts down just enough to see the other message he'd left. It was more embarrassing, though completely accurate in all ways as far as he was concerned.

On Lassie's lower stomach he had written, “Best Restaurant In Town”, with a large arrow pointing straight down.

When he looked up, he couldn't help it, he licked his lips. Lassie's ears were pink too; Shawn had always enjoyed his blushes. But Lass grunted.

“Bored” Lassie asked again and Shawn waited, then nodded. “And that's true?” Lassie wondered and his voice cracked. Shawn lifted his eyebrows, rolled his shoulders, then answered.

“Oh yeah.” His voice stayed smooth. Lassie hesitated, then coughed.

“The Sharpie?” he demanded and Shawn pulled it from his back pocket and presented it. He'd expected that. But Lassie just stared at it.

“You can't lie with a Sharpie, Lass,” Shawn told him, in case he didn't get it yet. “It's permanent.” That statement at least made Lassiter focus on him. He was still holding up the marker. He lowered it, then ducked his head as he uncapped it. He had to pull away a little bit, and Shawn shivered.

“Hey,” he protested and then shut up when Lassie gently but firmly took his arm and stared at his exposed skin. Then he bent over it and touched the felt tip to his skin. The ink felt cold, especially next to Lassie's heat. Lassie took his time too, but Shawn didn't say anything, just watched Lassie's face while he wrote, and studied the frown of concentration, and tried not to guess about what Lassie was writing, guessed anyway.

“I know I'm going to regret saying this, considering how much you already talk, but you really need to learn to communicate, Shawn,” Lassie told him, not raising his eyes as he finished. If Shawn had been able to move, he would have waved his hand. Blah blah. He communicated just fine, clearly.

When Lassie let go Shawn brought his arm up as fast as he could, blinking at the black slashes across his forearm that read, “Property of Carlton Lassiter”. He didn't have on long sleeves, and didn't plan on wearing any anytime soon. Everyone was going to see that, and Lass wasn't even remotely drunk.

Shawn grinned.

“Bored?” Lassie asked and Shawn stared at him, then shook his head. Lassie pulled in a breath. “True?” he went on and Shawn twitched forward and if there were any defenses up, he didn't notice them.

“It's permanent ink.” He rolled his eyes for effect, because that was so obvious.

Even knowing the kiss was coming didn't make it any less awesome. But Shawn pulled away after a moment, yawned. “But can we continue this later? I'm really tired and I'd like to go to bed.”

 

5) Wild West Fantasy

 

Shawn had no objections to being tied to the bed, or being tied to the bed wearing only his boxers, or even wearing funny outfits while being tied to the bed, even if he wasn't as into dress up as Lassie was.

What he objected to, would object to, was the fact that it hardly felt like role-playing if his character didn't even have a name.

“Of course you have a name,” Lassie had told him not five minutes before. “Your name is Shawn.”

Because Lassie liked costumes and pretending, but really lacked imagination. It was tragic really. Though the fact that Shawn being Shawn was a part of his fantasy was...nice.

“Shawn?” Shawn called to him, again, and wrinkled his nose because it itched and Lassie had outdone himself on the rope this time. Shawn could probably get free, but where was the fun in that? Besides, it would ruin the spirit of the thing if the damsel in distress weren't tied to the train tracks.

The “train tracks” was their bed and the “damsel” was Shawn, wearing boxers, an empty holster, a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a lot of skin. How this made him a damsel, he had no idea, but he hadn't wanted to wear a dress anymore than Lassie had wanted him to, and in any case, he was going to get rescued by the dashing Sheriff Lassiter, so what did he care?

Still, this fantasy was missing some things.

“I don't have a name,” he whined, tugging at the ropes around his wrists, pulling on the ones around his ankles. If they were just anonymous strangers then what was the point? He could get anonymous anytime, anywhere, and pretending was no fun when you did it all the time.

Things he didn't like to think about, and wouldn't have, if Lassie weren't taking so long in the bathroom. Honestly, he hadn't spent that much time in there since that first Sunday where he'd gone with Shawn to the barbecue at Henry's house and he'd been so nervous he had overgroomed.

“Are you trimming your nose hair in there? Because first of all, ew, and secondly, I was promised sex!”

“Christ, Spencer,” Lassie griped as he _finally_ stepped out of the bathroom and Shawn went quiet for a moment despite himself and his reputation.

The fact that Lassie got to wear clothes was horribly unfair. The fact that he looked so hot in them was worse. People weren't supposed to stay that hot in long term relationships, right? They were supposed to get ugly or something. Get boring.

Maybe it was the costume...or as Lassie insisted he call it, the _outfit_. Shawn's gaze darted everywhere; the black Stetson, the black vest with its shining silver star that said “Sheriff”, the long dark coat and matching leather boots with the jangly spurs.

Lassie had an empty holster on too, “guns were not play things, Spencer” after all. But he kept his hands at his waist anyway, and when Shawn finally looked into his face, Lassie was blushing.

People weren't supposed to keep blushing either after so much time had passed, Shawn was sure, but he wasn't complaining. He licked his lips and arched his back to pull on his ropes.

“Help me! I've been tied to the tracks...for some reason that doesn't really make any sense when a bad guy could have just killed me.”

Lassie sighed, looked a cross between annoyed and fiercely embarrassed. It had taken him two drinks and a lot of fondling last week to admit to this fantasy, and another few days to put his outfit together. No way was Shawn going to ruin it even if he had a hard time with the whole dress up thing.

“I can't help it!” Shawn sighed too, though he strained dramatically against his ropes, because he liked that part. He had to explain, or Lassie was going to end things right now and never attempt another fantasy with Shawn and Shawn could not have that. “What's our backstory?”

“Backstory?” Lassie was adorable when he was puzzled.

“Do we know each other? I am your girl? Or maybe I'm a fallen woman that a good man like you would never be seen with in public despite your burning love for me?” A little too close to the truth for a fantasy, but then again, maybe not, Lassie seemed to take him literally, and tried to reassure him in his grouchy way.

“You are not a woman, Spencer. I'll keep saying that until you finally understand.” Lassiter stalked over to loom from the foot of the bed. And yes, he wasn't a woman and that was kind of the point, and while that out-and-proud statement and all the impressive looming only increased Shawn's need to get ravished some time soon, he had something to say here that was very important.

“I refuse to be ravished by a stranger, even a sexy one.” He wasn't eighteen anymore, didn't ask for that kind of thing no matter how nice looking any blue-eyed stranger might be.

Lassiter rolled his eyes, then exhaled, long and slow.

“Fine.” He leaned over and pulled Shawn's ankle ropes loose with one strong motion. “We met once, years ago, when I was just a deputy sheriff and you were a girl...a boy in trouble.”

“You mean you do remember?” Shawn went still, and not only because he liked the casual way Lassie tossed the ropes to the side. So much work to get tied up, so totally worth it to be freed so quickly.

But Lassie had his head to one side and seemed confused. Shawn tore his eyes away.

“Remember what?” Lassie asked and Shawn turned back, flashed a smile.

“Our _history_ obviously. That's okay if you don't, because I do, and I can work with that.”

Lassiter snorted a laugh, then came over to the head of the bed. He studied the knots—that he had tied himself—in a critical manner.

“Is the train coming?” Shawn liked how the question made Lassie instantly squint at an imaginary horizon. role-playing was sort of dumb and juvenile, but that might have been the appeal. Lassiter, who had always been too serious for as long as Shawn could remember, was _playing_. He was embarrassed about it, and part of him wasn't sure that Shawn wasn't going to laugh, but he was playing and it was irresistible. Not that Shawn had bothered resisting for ages now. Not that Lassie had apparently noticed.

“We have a few minutes to get these undone,” Sheriff Lassie decreed and Shawn wriggled again in a way more designed to get him close to Lassie than to get him free.

“I don't care about my wrists, as long as you get me off the tracks, Carlton.”

“Carlt...” Sometimes it took Lassie a while to catch up. Shawn tried not to look too pitying. Lassie turned pink despite this being his fantasy and lowered his voice. “Do we know each other?” He took his gaze away to pull at the rope across Shawn's middle. It wasn't tied; Lassie hadn't wanted it to chafe, since he knew how sensitive the skin around Shawn's stomach was.

“You don't remember...” Shawn said, drooping, and blue eyes swung back up to his face. “I didn't either at first, but one good look at those eyes...” A small lie, but a good one. Lassie looked even more confused.

“I think I'd remember you.” His fingers were warm when they grazed Shawn's slight belly.

“But you don't, Lass...uh...Sheriff, I can tell.” Shawn sighed, then shivered when Lassie touched his wrists. “You probably save so many people.”

“I saved you before?” Now Lassie was just trying to figure out Shawn's game. He stopped with Shawn still tied up, though if Shawn was supposed to complain about that, he wasn't going to. He looked up into Lassie's worried frown.

“I was younger then,” Shawn admitted, then twisted away as Lassie bent over him to look at the knots. He gasped at the warm, sweet breath on him—just toothpaste, Lassie had been brushing his teeth in there—and turned back.

Sweet pineapple chunks, Lassie's mouth was close. Shawn inched his head up and Lassie blinked, then smirked and pulled away. “Train's coming,” he announced dryly over Shawn's pout, and left Shawn's hands tied, just not to the bedpost. Shawn shrugged and looped his arms around Lassie's neck, left them there during his move to safety.

Across the bed. Whatever.

He didn't let go when Lassie set him down, just rubbed his holster and boots and boxers and skin against all that black Lassiter had on. It felt amazing. Better than that, even with moderate chafing. Lassie groaned into his ear.

“Shawn!” He swore in surprise, raising his head.

“So you do remember me!” Shawn exclaimed, not entirely in character. He panted, then lifted his head to get their mouths together.

“I wouldn't forget you.” Lassiter was frowning so seriously and Shawn shook his head.

“I don't believe you.” He stuck out his lower lip to see Lassie's eyes narrow. “I bet you didn't even notice my choice in underwear.” Lassie's eyes instantly dipped to Shawn's pineapple-covered boxers. When he looked back up, he had the good frown of frustration on his face.

“You still have those?” His voice was rough. Shawn squirmed to get underneath him, letting out a sigh when Lassie took the hint and climbed the rest of the way over him. Their faces stayed close the whole time, like Lassie had never heard of personal space. Though he did scowl and arch an eyebrow.

“So when we met before, you were younger?” He shifted, his coat sliding to either side of Shawn, making the space around them as dark as a street outside a bar after midnight. Shawn tried to press up, got pushed back, just like before, like always.

Except something flickered in Lassiter's eyes and Shawn grinned.

“And you were in trouble?” If Lassie was going to be slow and not kiss him, Shawn had to take direct—or indirect, whatever worked—action of his own. He moved his head, licked along Lassie's jaw, pressed an open-mouth kiss to his bare cheek, the smooth skin of his upper lip.

“When are you not in trouble?” Lassie grumbled breathlessly a second later, then pulled himself back enough to study Shawn. “How much of this is crap, Spencer?” He frowned, and Shawn leaned back too so Lassie could judge his smile.

“Kiss me and find out,” he dared and, _finally_ , Lassiter's eyes lit with recognition.

“That was...?” he started then shook his head. “You couldn't have just _said_ something...” He exhaled, his voice strained and his face totally disbelieving before he ducked down.

This kiss was rough like there was a lot built up inside of Lassie, years inside of him where he should have been close to Shawn. But there always was too much in there, making him frown and growl, because Lassie couldn't speak like Shawn could, but for now he only made a noise when Shawn opened his mouth, groaned like he'd missed Shawn too.

This time when Shawn pushed up, Lassiter pressed him into the bed, didn't even for a second take his mouth away.

Shawn curled his fingers into his hair, slid their bodies together and shut his eyes. His chest ached, but he pulled Lass back when the other man tried to catch his breath, kissed him again, this time with hands gentle on Shawn's face and his mouth soft.

“Oh my God,” Lassie whispered at last, genuinely stunned and just a little slow, and Shawn wriggled to get his legs up and around him in a way he hadn't been able to when he'd been younger. “You...” Lassie still couldn't seem to breathe, tried to look suspicious for half a second then gave up.

“I knew you'd find me again!” Shawn called out, lifting his hips without being told when Lassie's hand skimmed over his waist. “Take what you want from me, Sheriff Lassiter!”

“Shawn!” Lassie spared a glance for the room, or the open windows, or the neighbors. As though Shawn hadn't made it obvious to everyone in the past year and a half. Hadn't made them obvious. And now that he had a real chance to, he was going to be as obvious as possible. Without actually saying anything, of course.

“See?” He beamed a smile, then gasped at the fingers splayed over his middle. “role-playing is always better when there's a history.”

This time, when Lassie touched him and Shawn called out in ecstasy in a loud and not entirely for the sake of the game kind of way, Lassie just smiled and didn't say anything when he did it again, louder.

“Role-playing, my ass.” Lassiter grunted when Shawn was finally quiet for the second it took to suck in a breath, then bent down to kiss him again. “This is just us.”

“But seriously,” he added a while later, and that line was etched into his forehead, “You couldn't have said something?”

“Nuh uh,” Shawn wrinkled his itchy nose and Lassie stopped to scratch it mid-kiss,“that would have ruined the surprise. And I know how you love surprises.”

Just because Shawn always knew what was under the tree didn't mean it wasn't still fun to leave stuff under there for other people.

 

1) kiss

 

Shawn hated holidays. Holidays were for families like the Gusters and Shawn didn't have that. He had a mom that wasn't there and a Henry that was the reason she wasn't there.

He'd come back to Santa Barbara for the chance to see Gus while Gus was home for winter break, and not to see his father, or to listen to him complain about Shawn ruining his life traveling the country and wasting his time running from himself, blah blah blah.

Shawn had been travelling the country since graduation and he had learned a lot more than he would have at any college. Which he was trying to explain to the guy breathing on his neck, but the guy didn't seem to be listening, which was funny, because he had been nothing but attentive for the last three drinks.

Nice of him really. He hadn't even noticed when Shawn had stopped drinking afer the first one.

“I mean, he guilts me about Christmas and then he agrees to cover some guy with a family's shift on Christmas Eve!” Shawn complained, shoving a little more at the guy all over him. The guy was heavy, and this was getting ridiculous. “Like I'm not a family! No, not next to the great police department!”

“Police?” That got the man's attention at least. Shawn shoved him the rest of the way off him and rolled his shoulders, mostly to keep out the cold now that he was free. He hadn't put on a warm enough coat when he'd left the house. He hadn't taken a car either, and now he was going to have to find a phone and call a cab or walk home. It had to be after midnight too. Perfect.

“Well this has been nice.” Shawn wiped the spit off his neck and the guy straightened. In the neon light from the bar sign, Shawn could see his eyes narrow. “Thanks for the drinks and Merry Christmas and all that.” He stopped when the guy—Harry, so not his real name—put a hand on his arm.

“Wait a minute, kid, I didn't shell out for the drinks just to get blown off.”

“I see, you were expecting a different type of blowing.” Shawn nodded regretfully. “Unfortunately, you aren't my type.” He squinted. Harry was older and well-dressed, true, but he was also kind of skeevy and liked to throw his money around. He also seemed to think Shawn could be bought for three drinks.

Shawn tugged, but Harry didn't release him. Shawn wet his lips, considered, but kept his tone totally reasonable.

“Look, Harry, trust me, you don't want to do anything stupid, and this would be very stupid. So just go home. Sleep it off with visions of dancing sugarplums or whatever.”

“You're the one that's stupid, kid...”

“I think the kid told you to leave him alone.” The new voice was commanding, young, and just a little inebriated. Shawn pegged it as belonging to the patrolman who had been sipping something brown in a booth by himself at the back of the bar even before he turned around to see for himself.

His young patrolman was tall and thin and off-duty, his dark uniform shirt was unbuttoned all the way, open to show the plain white shirt every cop wore underneath their uniforms. He couldn't see the man's badge or name tag, but he had light eyes, rich dark hair, and a ridiculous yet very shiny mustache. The kind of mustache some cops thought looked intimidating and that they didn't need as they got older and became truly intimidating. Shawn wanted to pet it.

His face was fairly smooth, fresh-looking, like he hadn't developed most of the defenses that older, jaded cops had, but he was still watching them both very carefully.

Not a rookie, but a young cop who didn't even have a desk yet, Shawn decided, and turned back to Harry with a grin.

“What my new lanky friend with the Irish hairline here was saying was, 'Get lost, Harry'.”

Harry looked unhappy. But he made a few cranky, pissy noises before backing up and heading back into the bar. Shawn's grin got wider for a moment, then he felt it fall into something seriously displeased.

“Thanks, but I had it.” He turned around only to find himself shoved against the outside wall of the bar.

“What you're doing is dangerous.” His young interfering cop got in his face. His eyes were very blue. His breath smelled like scotch. A cop drink, Shawn smirked to himself.

“What _I'm_ doing?” he wondered coolly and the cop blinked. “I was just trying to imbibe a little Christmas cheer. He's the one who got creepy.”

“And letting a guy like that buy your drinks seemed like a good idea?” The cop inhaled, looked closer at Shawn. “How old are you anyway? Let's see some I.D.”

“If you were on-duty, and not two scotches in, I might show you,” Shawn snapped back. “But you're as tipsy as I am, maybe more.” He was shoved into the wall again for the teasing, not hard, but enough to make him gasp in surprise.

“How old?” He hadn't thought that the cop in back had even been paying attention to him, or Harry, at the bar. Shawn had noticed the cop of course, the shoulders, but then he noticed everything.

“I'm legal, sheesh.” To drive and join the army and have sex. Not to drink. A mere technicality. “Have you ever heard of police brutality?”

“Brutality?” His cop blinked once or twice and looked at his hands like he was surprised to see them still on Shawn. He snatched them back and Shawn instantly shivered. The guy was like a furnace and Shawn had to wear two shirts even in the summer. He breathed out. “That's nothing to what that guy would have done if I hadn't come out.” The cop frowned, seriously, and Shawn resisted the urge to tell him he could take care of himself. “There are safer lines of work. I can get you help. Are you a runaway?”

“Work?” Shawn didn't think it was the vodka that had him lost. “I...runaway?” He stayed against the wall. “I'm not a runaway.”

The cop snorted.

“'Don't want to go home' is written all over you.” Since there was _nothing_ written all over Shawn, he closed his mouth for a moment. Then reopened it.

“I don't see you with _your_ family.” Those blue eyes dropped, came back up.

“I just got off-duty.”

“Only cops without families work on Christmas Eve,” Shawn pointed out and sucked in a breath when the eyes alone were enough to pin him to the wall.

“Know about cops do you?” The cop changed the subject and Shawn took that as his chance to slip away. He deliberately shrugged.

“I've been around.” He looked out at the street when the cop only stared at him. Though he could tell the cop was frowning, which was already no surprise. If the man wasn't careful, he was going to get wrinkles in his forehead, then one big line between his eyes.

“I can get you help.” This time Shawn snorted. A young enough cop that he hadn't gotten all frustrated and angry and unreasonable. Yet.

“I don't criticize your career choice,” Shawn said at last, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth. Not out loud anyway. “Now if you don't mind, it's cold, and I have to get home to pretend to be surprised at what's under the tree.”

“You always act like this?” The cop crossed his arms too, lifted his chin. Shawn made a noise.

“Oh my God, dude! I'm not acting!”

“Look, whatever, kid. Do you want me to call someone for you? You can...wait in my car if you're cold.” He jerked his head at some beat up POS parked at the curb and Shawn narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, I get it, I'll get in your car and...”

“No!” His cop actually jumped and put both hands out. It might have been the lighting, but he looked like he was blushing. “I don't...I'm not...into that. I'm a cop,” he finished, clearing his throat.

He _was_ blushing. Shawn felt himself stepping back toward him.

“Really?” He changed his tone. “Too bad.” Seducing a cop. A “straight” cop. Now that was a Merry Christmas. His cop put a hand out again and Shawn stopped without knowing why.

“I have a girlfriend...we're serious.” The cop scowled.

“Then why are you alone on Christmas Eve?” Shawn smiled when the blue eyes widened, but then looked away. When he looked again, the cop was momentarily staring at his feet.

“She...her father doesn't like me... She had to be with her family.”

“It always comes back to families, doesn't it?” Shawn sympathized, but made a face to himself. Apparently, his cop really was straight, and his girlfriend didn't care enough about him.

Shawn looked him over again, let his expression stay open and hungry when the cop noticed him looking. He held still, slowly licked at his lips. The man licked his, and Shawn watched his tongue touch his mustache.

Then his not-entirely-straight-after-all cop looked away. Shawn wondered if he had ever acted on any of the feelings obviously trapped behind the blue in his eyes.

“Don't you have anywhere to go?”

“Don't you?” Shawn asked in return and grinned for some reason at the familiar frown.

“I'm going to sober up, then go home.”

“Great!” Shawn sighed dramatically. “Take me with you.”

“I...” And wow, not a single thing about how not-gay he was came out this time. But sadly, the man recovered fast. “Someone has to be worried about you.” Shawn sighed for real.

“Look, I could call Henry, but then I'd get a speech and I'd get mad, and there'd be lots of yelling to celebrate the yuletide and I'd rather not.”

“Is Henry your...boyfriend?” The cop's gaze went to Shawn's face and then away at Shawn's smile. “I mean is he...?”

“Henry,” Shawn interrupted him, shoved his hands into his pockets. “Is my father. And I really don't want to deal with his brand of festivity right now.” The cop stepped forward at “father”, straightening up.

“Is he abusive?” It was weird that blunt, direct, and not at all sensitively-phrased question was so reassuring and vaguely loveable.

“Right.” Shawn snorted now. “Henry's more of a kill me with guilt and disappointment kind of dad.” He wasn't prepared for the glare to actually get sharper.

“But he'd show up if you called?” His cop's voice went up and Shawn froze. “Not every dad would bother.” The cop blinked something away and Shawn put out a hand, had to be tipsy to do it, but the cop pulled away. He did get his mouth open, but the cop pulled a clunky cell phone from his pocket and shoved it at him. “Call your dad.”

“I could run off with this, you know.” Shawn stared it, twitching.

“I could shoot you,” the cop responded in what was hardly the usual distant police manner. “Call him.”

“What, does every control freak cop in Santa Barbara find me?” Shawn asked the phone and then shifted, peeked up in a way he hoped was sexy. “About your car...”

“Call. Your. Father.” His cop didn't even budge an inch.

“Fine!” Shawn yelled, his face hot, then stopped. He turned away to dial the house. Henry of course, had to pick up on the first ring.

“Shawn? Where the hell are you? I said I'd be back by twelve!”

“I'm at _Slinky's_ on Fifth.” Shawn kept his voice down. The cop was listening.

“The bar!” Henry exploded. “You aren't old enough to drink, Shawn,” he stopped to scold. “What trouble are you in?”

“I'm not in any trouble.” Shawn breathed harder. “I just wondered...if I could maybe get a ride home?”

Henry made a loud noise, then pulled in air.

“Ten minutes,” he announced abruptly and hung up. Shawn closed the phone and handed it back.

“Thanks, man,” he offered, looking up. He could probably slip away before Henry showed up. “He's coming.” Shawn looked toward the street. “You don't have to wait.”

“Nice try.” His cop moved and leaned against the bar wall. He didn't have a coat on, his bare forearms had to be cold, but he made no move to even button his shirt.

“You wouldn't blame me if you knew Henry.” Shawn gave him a grin and glanced around.

After midnight on Christmas Eve... The streets of Santa Barbara were dead except for people who had no home or didn't want to go there. He looked back. It was quiet and Shawn wasn't usually fond of silence. He let it stretch as long as he could then leaned in closer again.

“Don't you have a coat?” He gestured.

“...Left it inside. I'm fine.” The cop grunted and his open shirt shifted, giving Shawn a flash of silver next to the dark cloth and part of a name tag. “er Lass”.

Shawn looked him over again, angled his head and tried not to smile when Officer Lass caught him looking, when Shawn let him catch him looking. He really was fit, not even thirty yet, and way too serious-looking for someone on Christmas Eve. Nice body too. Not perfect, but Shawn hadn't fully decided what made a body perfect yet anyway.

And he had, like, seven minutes before Henry showed up.

“Not a very fun holiday for you,” he observed, inching in. Lass grunted. Shawn slid closer, until the stream from his breath stirred Lass' uniform. The man's eyes went round, like he had _just_ noticed how Shawn had entered his space. He backed up, right into the wall. Shawn tried not to smile. “I feel like I should do something to cheer you up.”

“I...” Lass met his gaze then looked down. Frowned, of course. “I don't...I already told you...” He was a cop, had a girlfriend, whatever. Shawn waved it away.

“You don't sound sure,” he remarked, getting a good look at the pink mouth hidden by that mustache. He was wasting his time with the girlfriend. And as for the cop thing, it hadn't turned him into a grouchybear yet, which was as awesome as the smell of new markers as far as Shawn was concerned.

“And you're always sure?” Pissed, the cop had no problem holding Shawn's gaze, or hiding anything, but he seemed unsteady, flushed. It wasn't the scotch.

“About most things,” Shawn answered honestly. “And about this.” He licked his lips.

“They'll chap,” Lass immediately chided him and Shawn shook his head, pretending to be sad.

“I told you,” he whispered, his “sadness” slipping away as he scooted right up to that heat. “You were looking at my mouth.” Had been watching him the whole time in the bar too. He put his hands up, spread them out over a solid body.

“I'm not... I wasn't.” Lass' breath hit Shawn's tongue. His mouth may have been open.

“Dude, you can kiss me, it's okay.” Shawn wondered if Lass was still frowning. He could take care of that. “More than okay.” He stretched up to erase the tiny bit distance between them.

“Is this...is this some trick to get me to let you go?”

“Suspicious...” Shawn smiled because the mustache tickled. “Kiss me and find out.”

Lass' breathing stopped.

Even knowing the kiss was coming, it still took him by surprise.

Shawn gasped, instantly, falling forward except that he was caught and held. And then all he could process was sensations, like hard, and strong, and wet, and firm. Lips without any hesitation at all slanting over his, hungry and demanding. _Starving_.

But Shawn's mouth was already open for it, for him, his hand clinging to the t-shirt and a totally close- to-perfect body to keep him on his feet. And he was hot. So hot.

Sparkles at the edge of his vision made him gasp again as he was pushed back, and he stared up in a dazed, drunk way while Lass panted.

He had time to blink, and then Lass' mouth was back on his, soft, slow, warm in a way that made Shawn wriggle until big hands slid over his jaw and held him still. He breathed in, realized they were breathing together, that scotch tasted sweet, the mustache was strangely silky, and then Lass pulled away again.

“...Must be out of my mind,” he murmured, his hands still on Shawn, and then they both jerked at the sound of a car horn.

Only Henry could make that sound so ticked off.

“My dad,” Shawn said, watched the shock and horror cross that face as Lass yanked his hands away and stuck them behind his back. “Don't worry, this is the least of the reasons why he hates me.”

“He doesn't hate you.” Lass' voice was rough. He was staring, seemed distracted and horrified and guilty at the same time. “He came for you.”

“I'll listen to your advice if you listen to mine and dump your girlfriend and admit you like red meat,” Shawn offered. “You'll be happier. Trust me, Lass, it's no good running away from stuff.”

“Lass?” The cop jerked up, then went still when Henry honked again. He did not look that way, but his face was red, even in the dark. “Coming from you, I'll really take that to heart.” Even distracted, and clearly turned on, his cop was sarcastic. He jerked his head toward the truck, his gaze skipping away from Shawn's. “You should go.”

“But I'm never wrong,” Shawn told him confidently, licking the buzz from his lips and ignoring how Lass waved that off. Nobody who kissed like that belonged with a girl who left him alone like this. On that thought, Shawn leapt forward with all the agility he could muster, gave his cop a short kiss on his mouth before the man could get his guard back up, and not that his guard would ever be any match for Shawn.

“See you around,” he promised, not that he was going to stay in town any longer than he had to, and dashed away while the guy was still earning himself more wrinkles with another frown.

“Merry Christmas!” he called out over his shoulder and hopped into the passenger side of the truck. “You know, Henry,” he told his father, who glared at him. “I'm glad I came home this year.”

Not that he had any intention of staying.


End file.
